by Anne Stuart
“Don’t panic, love,” he whispered. “You survived the first two kisses. I promise this won’t be much worse.”
“Forgive me if I fail to be properly appreciative.”
“You will, my sweet. You will. You’re being kissed by a master.”
“And who’s to say that?” she murmured dazedly.
He resisted the urge to laugh his triumph out loud. She was his already. “The ladies, of course. Who else better to judge my kisses? But perhaps you might disagree. From your vast experience in kissing, you may find my technique sadly lacking.”
“So far,” she said in a faint voice, “I must admit it’s been . . . quite nice.”
“The best is yet to come,” he murmured. “You may close your eyes for this one.”
“I think I’m safer leaving them open,” she whispered.
“Whatever pleases my lady,” he said. He tilted her face up to his, his fingers gently stroking the sides of her cheeks, and he could feel the tremor rush beneath her skin, and he wanted to drink her fear from her.
He slowly, slowly touched her lips with his, holding her gently, prepared for her to try to bolt. She was patient, trembling beneath his hands, and she let him press his mouth against hers, as her eyes fluttered closed. Warm, sweet eyes, he thought, tipping her face up, using faint pressure with his thumbs to open her mouth.
She jumped when he used his tongue, trying to pull away, but he was prepared for her resistance, holding her still as he kissed her with exquisite thoroughness, tasting her lovely mouth. She whimpered softly, a faint, reluctant sound that almost made him feel regret, but then it was followed by a sigh, and she softened her mouth against his, letting him kiss her, inviting him with a shyness that was irresistible.
He couldn’t have her, not now, no matter how much he wanted her. She was barely ready for a kiss—anything more might scare her away forever, and he was a firm believer in plucking the fruit when it was perfectly ripe. Once his mouth left hers, the kiss would be officially over, and he didn’t want that to happen. He wanted to keep kissing her until the fire died out and the sky grew light and her women returned to roust him from the room in shock and envy.
He wanted her arms around him, but they lay clenched beside her on the bed. He wanted to touch her breasts, he wanted . . . oh, God, he wanted so much from her. And now he knew he had to stop kissing her for his own sake, not hers, or he might disgrace himself here on her bed as he hadn’t since he was a clumsy young boy, and if she made that soft, moaning little sound again he wouldn’t be able to resist . . .
A log in the fire split, the noise like an explosion in the stillness of the room, and he jerked back, shocked by what he had felt.
Looking at her made it far worse. Her mouth was damp and reddened from his, and her sweet brown eyes were filled with unshed tears. She was afraid of him, and she wanted him. He knew that with absolute clarity.
He moved away from her, off the bed, backing toward the door with ridiculous haste, desperate to get away from her. It was just a kiss, he reminded himself. A prelude to sex, a way to get between her legs, to properly prime her for his cock. It was nothing but a ploy.
She didn’t say a word; she simply watched him as he moved toward the door, devoid of his usual grace. “I don’t think there’ll be any more kissing,” she said in a hushed voice.
He never could resist a challenge, and she should have known it. Perhaps she did. “Why say you that, my lady? Didn’t you like it?” He well knew the answer to that question, but he had no notion whether she’d admit it or not.
She shook her head, but she didn’t answer. “No more kissing,” she said again. “It . . . disturbs me.”
Oh, blessed Saint Hugelina, but she was innocent. Ten years of life married to Victor of Moncrieff, a well-known debaucher and cocksman, and she somehow remained a babe. It astonished and aroused him.
He wasn’t surprised that someone with Victor’s reputation didn’t go in for kissing, particularly when the maid was already won, his for the taking. Victor’s prowess was bragged about by the men, not whispered by the ladies, a sure clue to whether he gave as well as took pleasure. Lady Julianna had never been pleasured in her life; he’d be willing to bet his own uncertain future on it.
“No more kissing, my lady,” he repeated solemnly. “Until you give me leave.”
The poor girl looked foolishly relieved, sitting in her rumpled bed, the covers drawn up tight to her chest, as if he could somehow see through the layers of wool and fur that encased her. He could have made it an even greater challenge, told her he wouldn’t kiss her until she begged him to. It was one and the same. She was getting close to ripe, and she had no notion that he was there to enjoy the fruits of her harvest.
She nodded, trusting him. “Then I’ll be safe,” she said, half to assure herself.
He couldn’t help it; he felt his mouth curve in a gently mocking grin. “As safe as you want to be, my lady.”
And for some reason the expression on her face reminded him that the last time they’d parted in a darkened room she’d dumped a bowl of cold water over his head. She looked as if she’d like to do it again.
He closed the door behind him very quietly. The women of Fortham Castle slept soundly—no one had stirred when Lord Hugh had stormed into his wife’s bedchamber, no one had heard Lady Julianna’s angry words. The hall was dark and deserted, only a flickering torch illuminating the corridor at the far end.
Illuminating the frail, slender figure of a young boy, watching him, with a long, thin silver blade glinting in the torchlight.
Chapter Twelve
GILBERT de BLAITH was capable of fiendish cleverness, but he wasn’t a very good judge of character, particularly when it came to the softer side of human nature. Greed, spite, and envy were second nature to him, but he was unlikely to recognize anything that wasn’t ultimately self-serving. Something they should have in common, Nicholas thought, strolling down the shadowy corridor in his direction.
“You work fast, Master Nicholas,” Gilbert greeted him in his deceptively sweet voice. “I wouldn’t have thought Lady Julianna would tumble so quickly. She looked to me like a starched-up nun. I’m in awe of your prowess. Perhaps you might give me some instruction in the art of seduction.”
Nicholas stopped a few feet away, seemingly a casual choice, but they both knew he was out of reach of any sudden moves. With no one around to eavesdrop, young Gilbert didn’t bother to mask his expression. In the young, smooth features lay the soul of a very old man. There were times when all that youth and beauty, combined with such a total lack of humanity, chilled Nicholas to the bone.
“I gather you do well enough, my boy. Your bed at court is only empty when you wish it to be.”
“You’re quite knowledgeable for a fool, are you not, Master Nicholas? I wonder if King Henry has any idea how wise you truly are.”
“He sent me here, didn’t he?”
A shadow crossed Gilbert’s young face. “Why?”
Nicholas was beginning to enjoy himself. If he had to spend the rest of the night in frustration, he preferred to bring a little discomfort to those around him as well. Particularly dangerous little piss-ants such as Gilbert de Blaith. “For the Blessed Chalice of the Martyred Saint Hugelina the Dragon, of course,” he murmured. “Clearly he didn’t have complete faith that you could accomplish your mission, and so he sent me.”
“I have never failed my king.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Henry is a man who likes to cover all his options. We’re both adept at trickery and deceit, each in our own way. Surely between the two of us, we’ll be able to secure it.”
“Are you suggesting we work together?”
Nicholas shook his head gently. “I’d as lief trust a snake as you, sweet Gilbert. And you’re an ambitious child—you wouldn’t be
eager to share the credit for this success if you could keep it all to yourself.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“It would behoove us not to be enemies, here in the enemy’s camp. As long as one of us presents King Henry with the Blessed Chalice, all will be well. We both have our uses—he’s not going to dismiss either of us as long as he gets what he wants. We can share information, or at least try not to get in each other’s way.”
“We could,” Gilbert allowed.
“You’ve been here longer than I have. Have you seen the chalice?”
“Not yet. It’s hidden somewhere, and no one seems eager to talk about it. Lord Hugh’s no fool—he knows Henry will stop at nothing to get it. At least he doesn’t suspect me, and I intend to keep it that way by not asking. I’ll find it sooner or later—I’m very good at discovering secrets.”
“So you are,” Nicholas murmured. “Will you tell me when you discover it?”
“Of course,” said Gilbert promptly. “After all, once I retrieve it there’ll be no reason for either of us to stay on here. You’ll do the same for me? Let me know if you discover its whereabouts?”
In a high niche above a dusty altar in a disused chapel, he thought, smiling innocently. “Of course, young Gilbert. As soon as I discover it.”
The boy nodded, seemingly satisfied, but Nicholas doubted he believed him. He was too used to the ways at court, the cunning and artifice, the lies and deceit.
“You could go back to your fair lady,” Gilbert suggested casually. “Though I wonder if her lady mother knows you’re tupping the creature. It seems as if you’d need a crowbar to pry apart her legs. I do marvel at your efficiency.”
Nicholas kept a bland expression on his face. He had no reason to feel such a protective rage, and displaying it to the dangerous young boy would be a mistake of an even greater magnitude.
“The lady’s legs and what’s between
Are mine alone, and not for thee.
Keep a still tongue in your head,
Or e’en a killer could soon be dead.”
“Charming,” Gilbert murmured with a faint sneer. “Threats in poetry. You don’t need to convince me, Master Fool. All the rhyming in the world will do little more than annoy me.”
“That, my child, is its purpose,” he said softly.
“And the threat?”
Nicholas crossed the few feet between them, aware that Gilbert’s thin, dangerous blade was tucked safely away. He kissed the boy’s cheek. “Very real, my child,” he whispered in his ear. And he danced away from him before Gilbert could react.
HE DIDN’T TOUCH her, which surprised Isabeau. She would have thought that once she followed him out into the hallway like a dutiful bride, he would take her hand and drag her to his bed. He seemed in that kind of mood, which Isabeau had to admit she found quite thrilling. During her short tenure at Fortham Castle her betrothed, now husband, had done nothing short of ignore her, addressing no more than a handful of sentences to her and only when he was absolutely forced to. She would have had little hope for her future happiness if she hadn’t occasionally caught him looking at her out of his wintry blue eyes, and there had been an almost wistful expression on his face before he’d turned away.
Not that it seemed likely that a lord and a soldier such as the renowned Earl of Fortham could ever be prey to such an emotion. She’d found out everything she could about him the moment she heard they were to be married. He was a good man, a stern man, a fair man, they said. He’d buried his first wife and had given up hope of having an heir, or so it seemed. Else why would he marry a widow past her youth with a history of stillborn babes?
But he’d wanted her. He’d chosen her, even if he seemed to be avoiding her, and now she was well and truly married, following him to his bed with no one to attend her, and still not much more than a few brief words passed between them.
But at least he wanted her. She had no doubts about that at all—her woman’s intuition was well honed over the years.
As for her, she was a bit in awe of him. He was so big, so loud, so fierce, so very physical that she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with him, particularly since he did his best to avoid her. She doubted he’d be a tender lover—most likely he’d be fast and rough, businesslike about the whole thing. But she could teach him—ah, yes, she could teach him. And she wanted to.
She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wasn’t about to find out any time soon—Father Paulus had decreed they would live chastely, and such decrees were not dismissed lightly. But perhaps, sharing the same bed, Hugh of Fortham might speak a few words. They would learn to know each other before they learned to love. Perhaps the abbot wasn’t the wretched monster she suspected he was, but instead was the font of wisdom.
Then again, maybe not.
Hugh stepped out onto the ramparts, not even bothering to see if she was following. His fur-trimmed cloak flew behind him, and she hurried to keep up with him, her thin linen shift providing little warmth against the biting night wind. The guards on duty kept their gaze averted, well trained, as she scampered on bare feet after her lord and master, and by the time they reached the lord’s solar her toes were numb, her teeth were chattering, and all she wanted was a fire and a warm bed.
He’d gone ahead into the room, and she hurried after him, only to hear him shout, “Get out!” She was about to turn and leave, then paused, with the unwise notion of giving him a piece of her mind, when the two servants who’d been awaiting him scurried out, eyes lowered, closing the door behind them.
Closing the lord and his new lady inside.
He said nothing. He didn’t even look at her. Instead he strode over to the blazing fire, unfastening his cloak and dropping it from his massive shoulders. It fell to the floor. He probably expected a servant to pick it up, but since he’d dismissed them that was unlikely, and she would walk on hot coals before she picked it up.
Though given the temperature of her bare feet against the stone floors, walking on hot coals seemed like a pleasant alternative.
She waited, and he said nothing. She glanced back at the door, but it was firmly closed, and she wouldn’t be half surprised if they were guarding it to make sure she didn’t escape.
Silly, of course. She was the lady of the castle—she neither would nor could escape.
She waited, and still he said nothing. She could see the bed in another room, a massive affair set on a dais, with rich, opulent hangings and thick fur throws covering it. A fire had been set in that room as well, and the flames sent shadows dancing across the floor.
“Well,” she said finally, but her voice came out small and squeaky and almost inaudible, and for a moment she thought Hugh hadn’t heard her. He didn’t turn, intent on the fire, as if he’d never seen such a marvel in all his days.
Isabeau cleared her throat. “Well,” she said again, sounding only marginally more normal.
“Well, what?” He turned, glowering at her, and she took an involuntary step backward, then halted. He was the one who had wanted to marry her; he was the one who had brought her here.
She tried to summon a smile, certain it was a poor effort. “Well, here I am,” she said brightly. “What shall we do now?”
His ironic expression made her blush. “Get in bed,” he said. “You’re my wife now—that’s where you belong.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not tired.”
“Oh.” It was all of a piece with their other similarly stilted conversations, and Isabeau decided to take matters into her own hands. She’d faced worse, much worse things in her life, and survived. One grouchy new husband should be only a minor inconvenience.
She crossed the room to his side and put her hand on his arm. He jerked, startled, and then held still, letting her rest her small hand on his broad, strong arm. But he did
n’t meet her gaze.
She wished she had even the faintest notion of what was going on behind his bright blue eyes when he looked at her, but she couldn’t even begin to guess. Was he regretting the marriage or regretting Father Paulus’s stern decree? He didn’t look as if he were about to tell her.
On impulse she reached up on tiptoes and put her mouth against his bearded cheek. “Good night then, husband,” she said softly.
He stared down at her, bemused, as if he was seeing her for the first time, and for a moment she expected him to say something. He lifted his hand, and she thought he wanted to touch her, but then he dropped it again, moving away from her. “Good night.”
Isabeau wasn’t one for easy tears. She had no choice but to leave him, to climb into the massive bed and huddle beneath the thick, warm throws, to stare into the blazing fire until her eyes were watering from the strain. He made no sound in the other room, and she expected he was staring at the fire as well. Two people, so close and yet so far apart.
She let out a small, sad sigh, so quiet there was no way he could hear her. And with the strength of mind she’d nurtured over the years, she willed herself to sleep.
HUGH HEARD HER sigh. There was a faint catch to it, as if she’d been crying, and that sound was like a stab wound to the heart. He couldn’t have made her cry, could he?
Of course he could. Big, rough creature that he was, he’d probably scared her half to death, dragging her across the castle and ordering her into his bed. Some tender lover he was, terrorizing the sweet creature.
She didn’t seem easily terrified, though, bless her. She’d scampered out of that bed as quick as you please and followed him hither and yon without a word of complaint. He’d been half afraid to look back and find that she’d decided not to follow, but every time he allowed himself a small glance he’d seen her, racing to keep up with him.
Too late he’d realized her feet were bare. If he’d had any sense at all he would have carried her—she was a little thing, and it wouldn’t have been much more of a strain than a full set of armor. But he hadn’t noticed, and when he did he was too wary to put his hands on her. If any woman was worth the price of eternal damnation, Isabeau was, and he would have been more than willing to pay that price.